


Arranged

by vesta02



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: After the Blight, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Court, F/M, Family, Family Reunion, Gen, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Nightmares, Non-Warden Cousland - Freeform, Political conspiracy, Scars, burn scars, reunited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesta02/pseuds/vesta02
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been four years since the Blight was defeated by Warden Mahariel, who died in the process. Many are getting uneasy as King Alistair continues to rule without a wife and without an heir. Returning to court after her narrow escape from the attack on her family, Margaret Cousland catches his eye as they begin a dance of deception, planning and finding a second chance at love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four Years Later

Fort Drakon was bathed in red as the archdemon swooped and dove above them. Alistair was _tired_ , exhausted from the battle through the city, racing up the steps after Lyna, keeping pace with her. He was certain he’d pulled something and Wynne had blessedly helped stop the bleeding along his forehead a few levels below. Victory, however, was close enough to touch but dread knotted in his stomach at the thought of facing the enemy once and for all.

This was what Grey Wardens were supposed to do though. _In peace, vigilance_.

He remembered their conversation the night before, her arguments that he needed to stay out of the battle. “You’ll be King, Alistair,” Her fingers had clutched at his vest, lower lip trembling, showing not for the first time the fear that ran deep within, “you’re precious to the people, they’ll need you. I’m expendable. I’ll lead the charge.” There was an unspoken promise as she kissed him, unable to voice it herself.

When it came to the final blow, Lyna all but vowed to take it.

Oh, but Alistair wanted to tell her that she was far from expendable to him. His hands tightened their grip, arms circling around her, breathing her in, trying to hold on with the desperation of a drowning man.

Atop the tower, he understood with startling clarity that they are the last. His eyes were on her as she stood before the beast, limping, snarling, teeth bared for battle. In his memory, she was forever young, blond hair speckled with blood, stormy eyes looking everyone but at him. If she looked back, she couldn’t go forward. Too much was riding on their victory.

 _In war, victory_.

They had made plans, Alistair thought hopelessly, they’d spoken of a future where she walked at his side. They wouldn’t be battling monsters forever and, before she’d made him King, he thought that future was well in hand. A future where she laughed at his side, held his hand down the long road, brought him to meet her clan like she always promised.

It seemed so far away in those final moments as the truth weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He was the Senior Warden, he should have taken the blow for her. Crown be damned, _he_ should have saved her.

“Lyna, please!” There was desperation in his tone, rough and ragged. She paused, throwing a glance over her shoulder at him. One final look, he thought, that was all she gave him. That moment was locked in his mind for eternity: sorrow creased her brow, her grip tightened on her daggers, squaring her shoulders before she broke into a sprint towards the archdemon.

For a moment he had hope that the documents were wrong, that they’d been given faulty information. She leapt into the air and her daggers sank into the creature’s skull and Alistair held his breath. For a moment he could hope and pray to the Maker or her Creators or whatever was listening to simply keep her alive.

The world around him exploded in a rush of light and sound. It blew him backward, landing against the stone with a hard crash of metal and limbs. For a moment everything was still as he tried to catch his breath. Was it over? He was dizzy with relief as he sat up, but relief, unfortunately, was short lived.

Lyna wasn’t moving.

He could never remember how he got there - did he crawl, had he been able to stand? - as grief overwhelmed him. His whole world shattered with one touch to her still warm skin, her eyes open but unseeing. “No,” He choked back a sob, lifting her from the rubble, holding her limp body close to his own, “ _no_ , Lyna, please!”

 _In death, sacrifice_.

The thing about death that no one says is how it shatters everything. Alistair couldn’t breath, tears swimming in his vision, sobbing openly against her neck. “Come back to me,” He breathed, voice jagged and rough, lips pressed against the top of her head, “ _please_ , come back to me.”

The dead do not speak, though, and he howled.

“ _Your majesty_?”

A knock and the loud voice on the other side of the door woke him with a start. Sheets tangled around his body, breathing heavily, Alistair ran a hand across his face. He wasn’t atop Fort Drakon, he reminded himself in an attempt to calm his rapid pulse, he was safe and sound in his bed. It was just a dream - nightmarish and angry but a dream nonetheless.

“I’m fine,” He called back after a moment, his tone curt, voice rough and ragged from crying. It wasn’t the first time he’d fought this dream; four years later and those final moments of the battle continued to haunt him in his sleep.

Her face, resolute and determined, would always haunt his dreams.

Sighing, he sat up, trying to untangle the sheets from his legs, smoothing the covers over himself again. In the dark he could be vulnerable and fall apart; behind closed doors he only had to be Alistair, King by chance, heartbroken and mourning for a love he lost. Outside these rooms, however, he put on a face, played the part, mustered what strength he had to be the King Fereldan deserved.

Pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, Alistair lay back down, willing himself to fall asleep again. As always there was the tiniest sliver of hope that, once he fell back to sleep, he might fall into a happier memory. It was only in the Fade that he ever saw Lyna and those moments he cherished.

 

* * *

 

Kirkwall was a beast in the summertime; oppressive heat and humidity hung in the air even in the earliest morning hours. No matter how long she had lived there, Margaret Cousland could never get used to it. She had grown up in the damp chill, cold winters and mild summers with more rain on more days than she could count. Had she been told years ago that she would find a home in the walls of her Hightown manor in a Free Marches city, Margaret would have laughed at the possibility of such a future.

No, her days would have been devoted to Castle Cousland, to reading and writing and perhaps finding herself a pleasant match with a man equal in both station and in wit.

Margaret had been young and naive to imagine that her life might unfold as prettily as it did in stories and fairytales. Life was far too cruel to let her have what she felt was a fair life, cutting her to the core. No one could have anticipated the Blight though or the events that unfolded just before and after.

Opening her bedroom window, Margaret surveyed the city before her. Days were getting hotter and more ships were sailing in and out of the massive harbor. There was a sense of normality to the city these days, finally pulled from the slump the Blight had left upon their economic structure and the sense that things were looking up for those who had settled in Kirkwall once they were herded across the Waking Sea with very little to their name. Despite her status, Margaret had been one such refugee, finding herself with a few personal items and her Mabari, Daisy, all she had left in the world.

Thank the Maker for small miracles that she hadn’t been alone.

“My lady, do you need anything?” From down the stairs, Margaret heard Ser Roderick Gilmore call up to her, as he usually did once he knew she was awake. Some mornings she might call for a bath, others simply to put the kettle on for tea. Today, however, wasn’t an entirely normal morning for the pair of Fereldans.

“Not for now, thank you Ser Gilmore,” She replied easily. A bath would be pointless in the heat - perhaps once the air had cooled and the sun was setting would she consider such a task. Wrapping her robe tighter around her slender frame, she moved to her trunk, picking and choosing what would look the best and what would be practical.

For today, she thought with an easy and effortlessly excited smile, she was seeing her brother for the first time in nearly three years.

Four years ago, Margaret had thought she’d lost everything. Her family slaughtered in their home and her brother missing from Ostegar, she’d been left with very little choice in where to go when word had reached her not far from a little village called Lothering that the hoard was coming straight for them. Exhausted from their journey and down to the last of their supplies, Gilmore had agreed their best bet was to follow those escaping the land, moving north as fast as they could manage it.

Only when the crisis was gone did Margaret begin her search with very little hope of finding anything. The fact that he was alive, reinstated at their childhood home, and was finally going to see her was some kind of miracle in itself.

Much had changed in the last few years since the two had lain eyes on one another. Still smaller in height and stature, Margaret had grown out of her youth faster than she would have liked. Eighteen when she’d been home again, the woman in the mirror looked youthful still, doubtlessly with years ahead of herself. She’d broken her nose during their travels to Kirkwall and it hadn’t quite set properly in place, slanted ever so slightly to the left, but it wasn’t quite noticeable unless you looked for it (as she often did, studying her reflection in an attempt to make herself alright with that and other changes to her physical form). Pretty sea green eyes and dark brown hair like her father and brother fell past her shoulders, twisted back or braided to the side these days.

Those features she could live with. But, as she glanced to her outfit, she frowned, exchanging the lighter gown for something heavier only for the sake of the high neck.

Margaret hadn’t escaped Castle Cousland easily.

One glance to the mirror and she swallowed hard against the knots in her stomach at the reflection that stared back at her.

How was it that she had just passed her twenty-fourth birthday and she felt ancient already? Her fingers fluttered along her neck, brushing along one of many scars that discolored her skin down her back, wrapping inelegantly at her right arm. Ugly reminders of a time when all hope was nearly lost.

Marcher fashion was, at the very least, forgiving enough to let her pass through with high collars and longer sleeves. The summer heat was more than unbearable at times but Margaret grit her teeth through it, refusing to let anyone see the marks betrayal had left upon her body.

What would Fergus say if he saw them? When he saw them would be a more apt response, Margaret thought, quickly shedding  her robe, slipping as swiftly as possible into the high-necked gown, grateful for the longer sleeves. Still, the light, fawn colored fingerless gloves that covered her hands helped ease her discomfort at having any part of her scarring showing. It gave Margaret a sense of control she no longer had in her life, even as such living in Kirkwall these last few years.

Fergus had mentioned helping her come home in his first letter to her. But the idea of returning to Castle Cousland was overwhelming; there were too many ghosts that haunted those halls and those of her dreams to allow her back there again at that time. She wonders if he’ll ask her home again, carefully pinning back twisted sections of hair into a knot at the base of her skull.

Would she go home? Could she consider such an opportunity? Her life here was small and harder than it would be as a Fereldan Lady, doing everything on her own with little help (her younger self would have been aghast at the prospect of learning to cook her own meals and mend her own garments) but she was comfortable. Well, comfortable enough in a city that continued to see an uptick in crime and wherein they had permanent residents of the Qun residing along the docks.

Besides that, Kirkwall wasn’t such a bad place to live, not really.

Slipping into flats, she carefully pulled her gloves on before traipsing down the stairs.

Settled at the kitchen table, sipping the remaining dregs of his tea, Roderick Gilmore gave Margaret a small smile and a nod of his head. “Good morning, your ladyship.”

She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Roderick, we’re far past titles,” It was a ritual with each morning as he continued to call her by her title and she teasingly told him off. They had seen too much together and been through far too many events for him to call her by any title.

There had been a time, Margaret thought, that she might settle into a comfortable life with Roderick at her side as more than just her dear friend. He’d been a comfort to her in the year of the Blight and had been the only lover she’d taken since everything had fallen apart. But, despite how deeply she loved him, it wasn’t precisely a romantic love. He deserved more than just a friend who he occasionally slept with; Margaret wanted her friend to have someone to love him, to cherish him, even if that someone would never be her.

“Ready to head to the docks?” He stood after a moment, stretching his arms above his head, waiting only until she nodded in agreement before he moved. He paused, rubbing his thigh and Margaret shot him a knowing look.

“Does it hurt this morning?” She asked him.

“No more than it did yesterday, my lady,” Their escape from Highever had left it’s mark on both of them and it showed in Roderick’s limp and a burn scar similar to the numerous ones scattered across her back, his discolored along the left side of his face.

Neither of them would ever forget Castle Cousland or the fire that had consumed it.

They set off at a sedentary pace, Margaret keeping her stride to match Roderick’s. The city was waking as shops began to open and merchants settled into stalls to sell their wares. Her arm tucked into the crook of Roderick’s, Margaret paused only to buy a sweet roll, cracking it down the middle to split with her companion. Her stomach wasn’t suited for much, rolling with waves and nerves the moment the docks were in sight.

“What if something’s happened to his ship?” Margaret fretted quietly, slowing her pace to a halt, “What if he didn’t come after all?”

“I’m sure everything is fine,” Roderick reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly before tucking her arm back into the crook of his elbow. With the weather and the shipping lanes as busy as they ever were during the summer months, Fergus had given a rough estimate of when he’d arrive. Margaret had been down to the docks twice that week with no sign of him and worry ate away at her insides over something going wrong.

She didn’t know how long they stayed at the docks as the humidity rolled in and the sun rose higher. Worrying the nails on her hand, Margaret paced while Roderick sat, quiet and on-guard. “Maybe we should call it a day?” Margaret murmured as the sun rose higher and the heat rolled off the city in waves. Sweat brimmed along her hairline as she dabbed her neck with a handkerchief she’d tucked into her dress pockets.

That’s when she saw him.

The years had aged Fergus as well but, when he smiled, Margaret could still see the man who had left with promises and words of faith from their home in Highever. Margaret almost couldn’t breathe, laughing when he beamed at her from down the docks.

Propriety be damned, Margaret was going to hug her brother.

Lifting the hem of her dress so as not to trip, she took off down the docks with a joyous laugh of her own. Pushing past a few merchants unloading their cargo, narrowly missing another woman with luggage, Margaret sailed through the crowd…

...and straight into her older brother’s open arms.

“ _Fergus_!” Her arms wrapped around him tightly, breathing him in, feeling her feet lifted off the ground by the ferocity of his embrace. He smelled of salt and the sea, felt a little narrower than last she’d seen him and, when he pulled away, she caught sight of delicate wrinkles in the corner of his eyes and along his forehead that she swore hadn’t been there before. “You look…different.”

“By different you mean _older_?” He teased her, giving a laugh as she smacked his arm lightly, bringing her back to the ground. “How I missed you, little sister. Letters don’t do it justice.” His eyes scanned her face and she braced herself as his eyes lingered along the scars that peeked out along her neck.

But, if he saw anything amiss, he said nothing, reaching down instead to grab his bag. “So,” He began as they started their walk back to where Roderick was waiting, “this is Kirkwall.”

“It’s larger than our home is, that’s for certain,” Margaret replied, “but it’s…” Homey wasn’t the word she was searching for as she caught sight of a scuffle along the docks further down the way. “Well, it’s been a place to live and I happen to be at least a little fond of it.” There, not an outright lie but there was no need to worry Fergus about the ins and outs of her first year in Kirkwall before Fergus had sent funds for her and Roderick.

The men greeted one another with a quick clasp of their hands and a slap on their backs before the trio started back up towards Hightown. They didn’t have much to say - Fergus commented on a few interesting things he saw but he expressed his need for a strong cup of _something_ and to sit down somewhere that wasn’t going to move like the ship he’d been a passenger on for the last week.

“This is nice,” Fergus dropped his bag by the door, stretching his arms above his head and followed his younger sister towards the kitchen. “Quaint, but nice.”

“I know,” Margaret laughed, gesturing to the chairs before opening her cupboards in search of something very specific, “it’s no castle but it works. It’s only me and Roderick and every so often we have someone come through to help with cleaning and to assist me with other household things.” Having a servant with them full-time would have been nice but it wasn’t a necessity for Margaret.

“Aha!” She grinned, pulling out a bottle of brandy she’d been saving for a special occasion. “This work for your _cup of something strong_ , big brother?”

“Since when did you hit the hard stuff?” Fergus teased as she poured a little into mugs, handing him one before settling across the table from him with one of her own.

“Shut up and toast me,” She held her mug out for him to tap his against, “I’m feeling the need to celebrate seeing my big brother for the first time in ages.”

“You could have come home,” His words took a serious turn and Margaret ducked his gaze, taking a delicate sip from her mug. The liquor burned down her throat and she gave a cough. “You would have been welcomed back to Castle Cousland with open arms, Mags,” There was a gentleness that Margaret had heard in their father’s voice that somehow translated to Fergus. The recognition hit her hard as she struggled against tears, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hands.

“I know,” She murmured, feeling her brother’s hand against hers as she held her mug tightly. “I couldn’t come home though. There are too many...I don’t know if I ever can go home.” She met his gaze again, sorrowful and full of regret.

“What if…” Fergus paused, finding his words, “what if you didn’t have to come back to Castle Cousland? What if you came back to Fereldan for good?” There was something he wasn’t saying as Margaret leveled her gaze with his across the table.

“Fergus,” She kept her tone light, pulling her hands away from his, still wrapped tightly around her mug of brandy, “you know I dislike riddles I don’t know the answer to.” He was up to something and, after a long sip, he spoke up once again.

“Well, little sister,” Fergus hesitated for only a moment, leaning forward with his hands clasped in front of him, “what would you say to marrying the King?”

 


	2. To Return

“I’m sorry, what?” Margaret was certain she’d heard her brother wrong, or perhaps her drink was far stronger than she anticipated. Or had Fergus already started before he docked? Needless to say, she was taken aback by his words, unable to wipe the confused frown from her features.

“You heard me, Mags,” Fergus fixed her with an uncharacteristically serious expression, “what if you were to marry the King of Fereldan?”

That was lunacy.

“I’d say you’ve had a few too many already,” Margaret replied, bristling slightly. “What sort of hair-brained scheme is this? And why in Thedas do you think I’d want to marry anyone to begin with?” Not to mention a hundred other objections that raced through her mind as she lifted the mug to her lips again, this time draining her cup. She gave a sputtering cough before reaching forward, filling it a bit more than the last, watching him with a steadily growing unease about the whole visit to begin with.

“Do you mean to bring me home?” She asked quickly, before she found herself tangled in a whole different conversation about hypotheticals and the ridiculous concept Fergus had pitched to her. “Am I to believe this is a trip where I need to come back to Fereldan?”

“I’m not taking you home,” Fergus replied quickly, “not unless you want to go. But, I had hoped you might return, if only for a short while,” He swallowed, adding, “I do have other news, if you wish to hear it?” His hands fiddled with his mug, looking and acting oddly nervous.

“What news?” Margaret asked quickly. Was there news from home that he needed to share with her face-to-face too dark and devastating for a letter?

But Fergus shifted him his seat and, instead of looking dour and glum, he seemed...hesitant and  hopeful. A flash of a smile crossed his lips, a shift in his demeanor evident as he cleared his throat. “I’ve met someone,” He confessed quietly, “We’re getting married before the year is out. I had hoped you would at least make a trip home for that.”

“Oh, Fergus!” Margaret was awash with emotion, reaching across the table for his hands, squeezing them tightly within her own. There was no hesitation when she smiled, acutely aware that she was getting teary-eyed thinking about it all, offering a little smile for him. “That’s such wonderful news!”

A million questioned swirled through her mind though as she tried to find her next words. How had they met? Was she kind? Had she already gone to see Castle Cousland? What was her name? But, amongst all the questions she could have asked, she settled for the only one that was necessary in that moment: “Does she make you happy, big brother?”

Fergus didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” He replied, squeezing her hands back in turn, “I never thought I could be happy again, but here we are.”

How could she refuse a trip home after such news? Margaret pulled her hands away after a moment, the smile on her face retracting slightly, introspective and pensive once again. She could at least go home for the rest of the year, see her brother married and happy once again before returning back to her simple life in Kirkwall. His idea still remained between them, the question of marrying a King unanswered intentionally.

Fergus watched her carefully as she ran her finger along the rim of her mug. In truth, the idea of being in Fereldan seemed appealing only for the sake of being somewhere familiar. As hard as she tried, Kirkwall wasn’t home, just another place she drifted to out of necessity.

“I can’t go back home though,” Margaret said finally, pressing her lips together tightly as she met his gaze, “not back to Highever.” Staying there again made her stomach knot and roll unpleasantly. There were too many bad memories to outweigh all the good.

Fergus considered a moment. “You could always stay at court,” He said finally, drawing a laugh from Margaret’s lips. “No, hear me out,” He held up a hand and his younger sister complied, though she couldn’t hide the incredulous expression that crossed her features, “I know Father never made a point for us to go, but, as one of the oldest families in Fereldan, it might be time for our voice to be heard in the capitol.”

Well, that was certainly a new idea.

Margaret had grown up with stories of court, though none of them had been pleasant. Truth be told, she’d heard worse stories from the court held by Empress Celene in Orlais, putting her father’s tales to shame with the political scheming that seemed a national sport with Orlesians. But she felt compelled to call her brother out on one detail he managed to skip over.

“Yes, we’d have a voice,” She replied evenly, “but it would also mean I’d be at court with the King. Who you still think I might marry.”

“It’s not so far-fetched,” Fergus said solemnly, “I’ve been…in talks with his uncle, Eamon, former Arl of Redcliffe.” That sounded rather suspicious as Margaret narrowed her eyes.

“Oh?”

“He and I are agreed that it wouldn’t be a terrible match,” Fergus took another swig from his mug, grabbing the bottle to pour a little more before continuing, “At least come for my wedding. You can meet the King at court and, if you like him, we can continue conversations about all of it.”

“And if I dislike court or anything further about being there, you won’t refuse my returning here again?” Margaret settled her brother with a hard look.

“Then you will be free to do as you wish,” Fergus agreed with only a momentary hesitation. “Though, Margaret, I do hope you’ll consider staying.”

Hours after their conversation had ended, Margaret settled at her desk, unable to sleep. The candle burned lower and lower but her mind was filled with questions and racing with the mere idea that she would be in Fereldan again after all these years.

A knock at her door startled her, whipping to grab a blanket, a robe, _anything_ to cover her shoulders and back. Her nightgown – soft, airy with slim straps – didn’t hide the ugly marks and she was far from ready to let her brother see the damage left from home.

“My lady, can I come in?” Roderick’s voice was muffled through the wood and she relaxed ever so slightly. He’d seen her in worse states, she thought bitterly, standing to open the door for him.

“Roderick,” Margaret tried to smile but there was a heaviness to her tone as she stepped aside to let him inside. “What are you still doing awake?”

“I could see the light under your door,” Roderick settled down on the bed, waiting for Margaret to sit next to him to continue, “are you well?”

“Not really,” Margaret sighed, glancing to her side to give Roderick a knowing sort of smile, “I assume you heard my discussion with Fergus this afternoon?”

“I did,” Roderick didn’t see fit to lie about it, reaching a hand out to take her right palm in his. In the faint candlelight, the scarring that wrapped from her palm didn’t look so bad. Sometimes Margaret could close her eyes and pretend that she looked as before: beautiful, unblemished, unmarred.

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, her chest constructing at the thought of all the eyes of court on her, whispering and plotting and sneering behind their hands. Fergus wanted her to come home and even without his ridiculous suggestion, Margaret hesitated.

“They will see,” She whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “they’ll see these and they’ll talk and whisper. I don’t know if I can stand it.”

“Let them,” Roderick’s voice was gentle, brushing a thumb across her neck, lingering along the scarring that twisted below her ear and around to her back, “for you know you are stronger than that, my lady.” He was right - why was he always right? - and Margaret conceded, leaning into his touch with practiced ease. The world had thrown so much at her, tossed her into the fire and she had emerged once again.

Margaret Cousland had endured and that was victory in itself.

“Who know,” He shot her a grin, “maybe court will be fun.”

 

* * *

 

There was a throbbing pain that seemed to always appear whenever Eamon came to his study in the evening. Alistair pinched the top of his nose to subdue the ache, his mind already full of numbers and plans that had been laid before him in the hours before now. It would have been bearable but, regardless of whatever reason he had for coming to Alistair, their conversation always took a turn for the worse.

Especially when Eamon brought up marriage.

“Please, Eamon,” Alistair did his best attempt at glowering but it felt more like a pout. How was it that he was King and somehow felt like a petulant child when arguing with Eamon? It didn’t help that, regardless of how old he got, Eamon spoke down to Alistair. Like he was still the child who slept in the stables, mussed hair and being scolded for a busted lip he’d gotten from one of the young pages.

“You should consider it, Alistair,” Eamon intoned seriously. Everything he seemed to say these days was serious and it wore on Alistair.

“Yes, of course,” Alistair’s tone took to mocking, sarcasm building, “shall I get my dress designed and flowers ready?” He sighed, unable to find any distraction in the papers before him, frowning at his uncle, who stood resolutely before him. Part of him understood that this was the game of ruling a kingdom, of understanding the politics and the work that went behind the throne. But another part of him wished desperately that Eamon would drop the conversation; each time Alistair refused, it seemed to spur Eamon onward either way.

“It’s been years, Alistair, and you need to secure your rule.” Those were the wrong things to say to Alistair, who felt anger bubbling in his gut.

“I loved her, Eamon,” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, lip curled in an unhappy sneer, “I loved her and now she’s gone. You don’t get to dictate how long I grieve.”

Talking about her got easier with time, but it didn’t ease the ache that settled and rest right on his chest. It was because of Lyna that he had this office, a position he had been hesitant to accept when she proclaimed her support for him. Even in the face of being out of sight, of not being officially at his side, Lyna had put her faith in him without hesitation.

“They need a kind King when this is over,” She’d told him in private when they had retired that night, “they need a just King, someone who will show them mercy and show them their humanity again.” She’d offered such a soft, hopeful smile, her vallaslin cast in glowing firelight. “You will be that King, _ma vhenan_.”

The memory was warm, even with the bittersweet knowledge that she was gone before she could see him become King.

“People are talking, Alistair,” Eamon fixed Alistair a glowering look, but the King glared right back. Alistair had faced down an archdemon; his uncle did not scare him half as much as he had in his youth.

“Let them talk, uncle,” Alistair shrugged his shoulders, “I can’t do anything about it.”

There was a sigh and Eamon almost looked defeated. _Almost_ but not quite as his tone dropped, taking on serious and concerned rather than irate and angry.

“You have to secure your line, and soon,” Eamon didn’t hesitate, pulling out the last of his artillery. Rolled and fraying at the ends, the parchment was a mystery as he held it out for Alistair to take. The King hesitated only a moment before his fingers wrapped around the roll, pulling it open.

“What’s this?” But his eyes were scanning the paper, eyebrows raised before a frown settled across his features. “Ah,” Of course, Alistair thought, his eyes scanning the printed writing in all capital letters. “This again.”

**DE-THRONE THE BASTARD, CROWN ANORA RIGHTFUL QUEEN**

It wasn’t the first time Alistair had seen propaganda nor did he think this would be the last. Everyone had been uneasy when Alistair had taken the throne and there had been rumors following his coronation that he wasn’t _truly_ Maric’s son. Investigations had opened up but, thankfully, they hadn’t last long. The country had far more to worry about, rebuilding their economy and cities that were ravaged by the darkspawn hoards.

He crumpled it quickly, enjoying the sound it made, as though crinkling the paper might squash the entire argument his uncle was trying to place before him. Alistair turned and chucked it into the fire with ease, watching it vanish in a puff of crackling ash and smoke.

“Do you really think they’ll accept me if I give them a queen and an heir?” Alistair asked and there was no malice in his tone, simple honesty that surprised Eamon just as much as it surprised Alistair himself. He ran a hand over his face with an exhausted sigh.

“Perhaps,” Eamon answered as honestly as he could, “but you need to open yourself up to the possibility of marriage. It doesn’t have to be for love, dear boy.”

Love. Alistair wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. How could he ever think about love again? Any marriage he had, it would be out of duty, for no one could hold a place in his heart like Lyna did now.

“I’ll think about it,” Alistair didn’t offer any promises or give much hope beyond the barest glimmer, standing from his desk finally to stretch his arms above his head. “For now, I think I’ll retire. We can speak again later.”

Eamon at least had the decency to know when he was being dismissed and, nephew or not, Alistair was the King. He gave a curt nod of his head. “As you wish, your majesty.”

No promises, no hope of Alistair actually agreeing to anything, but being open? That was something he could maybe manage. The idea was daunting – he had been approached before by lords and ladies with sisters, daughters, nieces and friends who they thought he would appreciate. That was the kicker, Alistair thought with a grimace, turning from his desk and striding to the door.

He was a crown, a kingdom, power; no one saw him for who he was.

If there was one thing he was certain about, it was that he refused to marry anyone looking to move up with his position. He was a fool, yes, but he had some sense to understand that a union based on promises of power and status was no union for him.

At least Eamon hadn’t asked him to consider Anora. She was still locked away, comfortably, but his privy council was unwilling to allow her freedom again, not with Alistair’s rule still settling.

Alistair shook his head, his mind drifting as he wandered down the halls, pausing in the kitchens to stuff a piece of bread into his mouth and sneak some cheese – he was King, yes, but the guilt that came over taking things from kitchens after meals had been served and when he had been taught not to never quite left him. Snack in hand, he sought the solace of his chambers, happiest when the door shut and he was offered quiet at least until morning.

Any big decisions he had ruminating through his mind could wait until then. He did have food to occupy his mind, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! I'm really pumped to see hits and subscriptions on this little idea I had a few weeks ago that I am slowly building on. I'm hoping to update once a week or there abouts, if my outline cooperates with me. That being said, I love seeing comments and kudos so if you have them, leave them! I'm also on tumblr - come fine me at alittlestarling.tumblr.com :D


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